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A large part of living in New England is learning to either love (or at least tolerate) snow. Normally, I’m thrilled by it. I’m not a skier; I just like the way it looks. Sometimes it’s fun to wad up and throw at your friend as he stammers out a greeting to a pretty girl. That or stick it in the tailpipe of the car that he’s brushing off. Best of all, going out in your friends Ford Taurus as he does donuts and makes his car smell like an old boat.

But I digress. It’s not fun when it warms up and rains on that snow, turning it into a substance resembling soaked, wadded up paper towels. Then, as you desperately try to clear your driveway with the little plastic shovel that you thought would be “good enough” you curse yourself for being a cheapskate. This is shortly followed by a loud crack, which of course is your only shovel breaking. Rather than pitifully trying to scoop with your hands, you head inside. You tell yourself that the warm temperature and wet rain will dissolve the rest of it.

That’s a lie of course you find out the next morning as you discover not only is the snow still there, but it’s covered in a tough layer of ice that taunts you as you try to pound and break it so you can almost clear your car off. You give up on your roof, becoming “that guy”. Yes, that guy that shedding snow on the highway. Huge chunks of ice fly off, hurtling straight back into the windshield of the guy behind you.

Yay New England.